I am a soup.
In the bath I became a soup, my belly became a basin.
Inside are the insides. The makings of something delicious, bright, nutritious, dynamic. Perfect.
There are ingredients that I must add to this broth that, on their own, I dislike. Some I wish to delete, like that text convo on my phone. Swipe left and it’s gone forever. Except it isn’t, but you knew that. Because I am wise I will allow them, knowing that hard things are also good things. Because I am wise I understand that the soup is the sum of its parts.
Other additions I love and always will. The apple tree in May. The sunlight splitting my old fir floors in two, while a piano solo plays in the background. My kids running through the front door, not one of them has pediatric brain cancer. The way he holds me.
Some, to which I’ve grown accustomed. Socks, for example. I hated them. What use are socks when you’ve chosen to walk barefoot through this world? Did you know that socks are actually—at times—very appropriate? And can even facilitate barefoot walking occasionally?! I was wrong, I thought I hated that spice, that flavor—and I was wrong.
There are others I’ve decided no longer support my cells. None of those come to mind, but I know the way used to feel on my body, supportive. And I know the way they feel now—restrictive.
I am soup. The flavor evolves, as any work of art must. Still sturdy, still nutritious, still clear. I am soup, would you like a taste?